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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28562262">High Maintenance</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockspeed/pseuds/mockspeed'>mockspeed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Morally Ambiguous Peter Hale, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, romantic corpse disposal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:21:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,216</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28562262</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockspeed/pseuds/mockspeed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Peter have been dating for five months. Some things are already getting old. </p><p>(It’s amazing how fast a corpse can go off in the summer.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>High Maintenance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The nights had gotten hot and sticky, and Stiles’ AC was busted. He’d tossed and turned under the thinnest sheet he owned — unwilling to go without and risk being eaten alive by any wandering mosquitos, another hazard of his shithole apartment — and hadn’t fallen asleep until just before dawn. So it was with mixed emotions that he awoke around midday to something cold pressing against his neck and dripping down to his bare collarbone. </p><p>He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut but couldn’t resist pressing his neck into the cold. He quickly recognized the yielding plastic and condensation of an iced coffee in its to-go cup. He grabbed it before opening his eyes to look at Peter, mouth already thinning out unhappily. </p><p>“Morning, sunshine,” Peter said with a look on his face that made Stiles want to roll back over. </p><p>Peter looked as out of place as ever in Stiles’ cluttered studio apartment, perched on the edge of Stiles’ twin mattress. The boxspring sat directly on the bubbling laminate floor. Even ‘dressed down’ in a bizarrely well-fitting v-neck and jeans, sunglasses hanging from his collar, he was polished and manicured in a way that made Stiles’ six different laundry piles, collection of empty Starbucks cups, and peeling-paint evidence of his landlord’s apathy look even more pathetic. </p><p>“I hope like hell you mean afternoon,” Stiles groaned, sitting up to sip at his coffee. He piled off his bedcover, careless of his nudity, and noted that the fitted sheet was coming off his mattress down by his toes. He pushed at it ineffectually with his heels, hoping vaguely that Peter hadn’t noticed it. Not that it mattered. </p><p>Peter knew how he lived. </p><p>“I regret to inform you that ‘good morning’ is accurate for another six minutes,” Peter said. </p><p>“<em>Gross,</em> Peter, we’ve talked about this,” Stiles groused, rubbing at his eyes, “what do you need?” </p><p>“I can’t just come visit my beautiful boyfriend in his charming home?” Peter asked, drawing a finger across the condensation of Stiles’ drink before bopping him on the nose with it. </p><p>“After the fit you threw last time you saw a cockroach in here? I don’t buy it,” Stiles said, pushing his hand away roughly. </p><p>“I need to borrow the Jeep,” Peter said, straightening up a little. </p><p>“Not happening,” Stiles said instantly, “you fucked up the transmission last time. We agreed, not again.” </p><p>“<em>And</em> I paid to fix it — but that would be why I’m waking you up instead of just taking your keys,” Peter said pointedly. “I am respecting your boundaries.” </p><p>“So you need to borrow my Jeep <em>and</em> me.”</p><p>“An extra pair of hands certainly wouldn’t go amiss.” Peter said, climbing to his feet. He passed a hand across the back of Stiles’ neck and ruffled affectionately through his hair as he went. </p><p>Begrudgingly, Stiles’ felt his resolve soften and his shoulders relax. He sipped at his coffee, eyeing Peter appraisingly. </p><p>“Why do you need the Jeep, exactly?” </p><p>“I need to move something, and you know what the trunk on the Shelby is like,” Peter said.</p><p>“And by something you mean —” </p><p>“A body,” Peter admits, thumbs hooked casually in the front pockets of his jeans. </p><p>Stiles groaned and curled over his coffee, “it’s always a body with you. It’s never a dresser or some Ikea shit or —” </p><p>“I know, I know, and I do so hate to be predictable, but —” </p><p>“Okay, where even is it?” </p><p>“Out of sight. I’m not reckless<em>,</em> after all. I tucked it under the Shelby, in the Whole Food’s parking lot.” </p><p>“God <em>dammit</em>, Peter,” Stiles said, leaning out of bed and bracing a hand on Peter’s stomach to grab a mostly-clean t-shirt off the floor, “just <em>once</em> you can get viscera on your own upholstery.”  </p><p>“Stiles, I can hardly fit a corpse in the trunk, much less a corpse <em>and</em> groceries. By the way, I put my ice cream in your freezer, I didn’t want it to melt.” Stiles’ freezer was a cubic foot sub-section of his mini-fridge that barely got cold enough to ice over. It was prone to build up, and barely fit his TV dinners. “The rest of my perishables are still in a hot car over a rapidly ripening corpse, however, so if you could summon a little bit of hustle, I’d appreciate it.” </p><p>Stiles groaned and lumbered up and over to his overflowing Ikea desk to retrieve what he had started to think of as his corpse-hiding charms — a few gems on charm clasps for stealth, removing evidence, and generally getting away with things. </p><p>“How did this become my problem? My regular problem?” He asked.</p><p>
“What’s mine is yours, darling,” Peter said, slipping his sunglasses out of the v of his collar and onto his face. “Chop-chop, please. I did bring you Starbucks.” </p><p>“Starbucks isn’t worth this,” Stiles grumbled. But he pulled on his shorts and grabbed his keys anyways. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Outside the Beacon Heights Whole Foods, the Jeep was pulled up alongside the Shelby. Both cars had the hoods popped and jumper cables tied the two together, like one was giving the other a jump. It was better to have an explanation for people to gloss over, regardless of how well Stiles’ charms worked. On the opposite side of the Shelby, Stiles noted the red Mustang and the similarly-red flecked scratch on Peter’s car. </p><p>He ducked down to look under the Shelby at the victim. It was a young-ish guy in a colorful tank top that Stiles’ mentally sorted as ‘rave chic,’ busted aviators on his busted face, close cropped hair, tan skin, and a gored out throat. </p><p>“And this guy needed to die because?” Stiles asked, gingerly getting back upright, trying to avoid touching his bare knees to the hot asphalt. </p><p>“Oh don’t act like you haven’t figured it out,” Peter said, looking around. Noon on a Tuesday was frankly a bad time to try and get a corpse out of the Whole Foods parking lot. There was a nearby office building and the employees tended to hit up the hot bar for lunch. </p><p>“I just want to hear you say it,” Stiles said. He began to twist at the privacy charm on his — extremely masculine, thank you — charm bracelet. </p><p>Peter huffed, but turned his mirrored gaze to Stiles. He looked unfairly cool in the hot sun. “He scratched my car, we argued. He started to get a little physical and I… had a minor slip in temper.” </p><p>Stiles sighed and tried to focus the exasperated energy into fueling his charms. He felt the gem heat under his fingers. “We should be good, move him now.”</p><p>In a flash Peter reached under the Shelby and dragged the man out by his obnoxious tank top, Stiles had the Jeep’s trunk open, a cargo cover in place, and the trunk shut again in short order. </p><p>“You wanna wait in the Jeep for the next one?” Stiles asked, jangling his charm bracelet in Peter’s face. “If you’re feeling <em>fragile</em> enough to murder a guy for a scratch that you could buff out, I don’t want to set you off.”</p><p>“You don’t have to be mean about it,” Peter said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the Jeep. “No, I’ll be fine. Besides, you know I like watching you work. I can help with the privacy charm while you do the evidence burn. We’re going to need both here.” </p><p>“Suit yourself,” Stiles said, but he leaned back next to Peter and let him casually wrap his hand around Stiles’ wrist over the charm bracelet. Stiles thought, perhaps a little grumpily, on their relationship, on the connection between them — both metaphorical and physical, where their skin touched around the charm bracelet. He let the potential between them fill up the charm and heat like a shorted battery. With a thought, it sparked and caught on something intangible, a brief ribbon of fire flowing from where Peter’s hand was clasped over Stiles’ wrist to pavement under the Shelby and a spot between it and the Mustang. </p><p>Peter’s grip tightened on Stiles’ wrist. The fire lasted only a moment, burning away any trace evidence, but Peter’s grip remained harsh after it had burnt out. When Stiles looked over, Peter’s jaw wasn’t any more fixed than usual. His sunglasses obscured his eyes, but his face was pointed towards Stiles’ and Stiles could just make out the shape of his eyelashes through the amber lenses. Stiles reached across his body with his opposite hand to squeeze Peter’s bicep. </p><p>Peter looked away and smiled briefly, releasing his grip. </p><p>They watched the stream of office workers flowing in and out of the grocery store for a moment. </p><p>“You’re <em>not</em> ditching me with this, dude,” Stiles said, “but I’ll follow you home so you can put away your groceries before we take it to the preserve.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Stiles helped Peter bring his groceries up to his air conditioned apartment. As Peter sorted things out of his reusable grocery bags and into his double-door fridge (in an <em>apartment</em>, what the hell), Stiles spread his torso across the wonderfully cool actual-stone counters of Peter’s kitchen island (in an <em><strong>apartment</strong></em>, what the hell). He moaned. He was layering sweat on top of sweat, driving around with the body. </p><p>Much like Stiles’ apartment, the Jeep was also not air conditioned. </p><p>“Hm, maybe we should have a picnic after? Maybe by the river?” Peter mused into the fridge. </p><p>“Romantic,” Stiles said to the countertop.</p><p>“Well we’re heading out to the preserve anyways, may as well have a reason why,” Peter said. He retrieved an insulated backpack from the pantry. </p><p>“I’m not gonna argue with feeding me,” Stiles said, turning his head a little to rest his cheek against the granite and eyeball Peter. “Services rendered.” </p><p>“I already left you the ice cream,” Peter said, “this is entirely a date related activity, not transactional.” </p><p>“That ice cream is probably accumulating freezer burn as we speak,” Stiles said.</p><p>“Well if you’d rather I come back for it,” Peter began.</p><p>“Oh no, I’m gonna eat your fancy ice cream. Ice crystals or no. Worst comes to worst I’m going to pour it in the tub with me.” </p><p>“You fit in that tub?” Peter asked, as he began prepping some sandwiches. </p><p>“If I sit fully upright and bend my legs, sure,” Stiles said. A tile had fallen off the wall and narrowly missed his head last time he’d tried to bathe in his apartment, but that wasn’t relevant. Sometimes a man needed a bubble bath. </p><p>“Well you can always bring it over here,” Peter said. He did have a jetted tub. But who knew what ice cream would do to the inner workings of that? </p><p>“So you can recoup your ice cream losses? Fat chance.” </p><p>“I won’t insult you by talking about licking it off your skin then.” Peter flashed him a grin, pulling a bottle of wine from the <em>fucking wine cooler</em> in the island to add to the backpack. </p><p>“Well I could still stand to hear about it.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You missed the turn for the ravine,” Peter said. </p><p><em>Turn</em> was a generous phrase. The Jeep was off-road in the preserve. By now, they had a good handle on which trees they could fit between. </p><p>“I’m not going to the ravine, I got a new body dump to show you,” Stiles said. </p><p>“Oh that <em>is</em> romantic,” Peter cooed. His sunglasses were back in his collar, the shade of the trees making them unnecessary. This allowed him to smoulder cartoonishly at Stiles with the full use of his eyes. </p><p>“We gotta talk about that,” Stiles said, “not all our dates can be combo body-dumps.” </p><p>“Stiles, if I didn’t take you out when I already had you out and about for business, we’d hardly get out of the house at all,” Peter said. “Between work and school you have quite the schedule, and I know you need time to recharge. I’m just saying.” </p><p>Stiles felt momentarily guilty, and then had an ugly thought re: whether Peter was killing people to get Stiles to be less of a homebody — but he dismissed it. Peter really was doing a lot better on the whole killing people thing, and grocery-store-douche was the first non-pack related body in a while. He was trying. </p><p>“Well, you know. My dad and I agreed it was important I try living on my own for a bit. Especially with him and Melissa down-sizing. You know I don’t mind you chilling with me at my place,” Stiles said. </p><p>Peter’s lip started to wrinkle like he couldn’t quite help it and he looked away. </p><p>“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Stiles said, “It’s better than when I was living with those four other guys from BC3.” </p><p>He had briefly thought that maybe he could get the dorm experience despite choosing to do his first two years at community college. Unfortunately, living with a bunch of guys also attending Beacon County Community College had turned out to be a difficult mix with supernatural shenanigans, nevermind that basic household hygiene had been such a problem. He had managed spring semester with them, and then fall. But then his shoddy napkin sub-lease was coming up, so he had figured he may as well see what was available for a single college student without much cash. He had made the decision to move out part way through the spring. </p><p>He had only been dating Peter for a month or so before he moved out on his own, but he worried that maybe Peter had been some kind of traumatized in that brief time. His reaction to cockroaches was a little extreme — even when judged on the same scale as his reaction to douchebags who touched his car. </p><p>“It’ll be better once I wrap up my summer courses in a few weeks,” Stiles offered, “I’m done with my associates, and I’ll just be working for the year.” </p><p>And then he’d hopefully be moving somewhere to go to a four year school, and who knew what would happen to their relationship then. So he wouldn’t bring that up. </p><p>“Anyways,” he continued, “We’re about as close as we can get. I’ll take the feet if you take the head.” He parked the jeep, and the two of them climbed out and retrieved the body from the trunk. </p><p>“We’re near the Nemeton?” Peter asked, looking around at the trees. </p><p>“Yeah, I used it to anchor a few spells — don’t worry, I think you’re gonna like this.” </p><p>Stiles took the feet, letting Peter take the bulk of the body’s weight — along with the insulated backpack —  and led the way. He made Peter pause as they went past a particularly broad tree trunk, and fussed with a few gems that he had left secured to the tree. </p><p>“Some hardcore redirection charms,” Stiles explained, “I’ll show you their order later, it’s like a password? And it feeds off how the Nemeton is like, weirdly hard to find too. Just doubling down. Don’t need anyone tripping into this.” </p><p>“Well color me intrigued,” Peter said. </p><p>“I won’t keep you in suspense,” Stiles said, “voila!” He dropped one of the feet to gesture expansively at the small, muddy pond behind him. </p><p>“Okay?” Peter asked. </p><p>“Okay, okay, dump him in!” </p><p>Together they heaved the body into the pond. There was a moment, and then the eely fish came for it. </p><p>“Oh,” said Peter, “those are—-”</p><p>“Magically souped up lampreys!” Stiles said, “I was reading this article about this roman senator that stocked his pond with them and kicked slaves in? And I thought, damn, what a way to get rid of a body!” </p><p>The two of them watched for a bit.</p><p>“It’s kind of gorey,” Peter said, a vaguely impressed note to his voice.</p><p>“I was thinking this would be faster?” Stiles said, “more of a piranha effect. If you spot one really going nuts let me know, there’s a few different kinds in there. I thought I’d have another month to work out the kinks and really optimize, but I figured — eh close enough.” </p><p>“Another month?” Peter asked, mouth curving up. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, happy six month anniversary,” Stiles said. </p><p>“Oh Stiles,” Peter said, and sighed happily, “you have absolutely no room to criticize me for taking you on dates after body dumps.” </p><p>Stiles winced a little, and crossed his arms. “I can see how this might undermine my own argument.” </p><p>“I’m not complaining,” Peter said, “You’ve made a chore into something a little more fun. Every time I have to dump a body, I’ll think, ‘<em>Look how much Stiles cares about your happiness, he got you carnivorous eels.</em>’” </p><p>“They’re not technically eels, that’s a common misconc—-” Peter planted a kiss on him. </p><p>“I’ll let you handle the details, sweetheart. Lunch?” </p><p>“I think this is technically my breakfast,” Stiles mused, but obligingly turned to head with Peter to the Nemeton. It made a good platform for picnics. </p><p>“A little late,” Peter said, “It’s after noon.”</p><p>“No, no, au contraire! I am after all, breaking my fast. Timeframe is inconsequential for breakfast.” </p><p>“By that standard doesn’t the coffee count?” </p><p>“You told me coffee wasn’t breakfast like two months ago.” </p><p>“Iced coffee is different,” Peter said. </p><p>“I get you a pit of eels and you respond by arguing with me,” Stiles complained, “You better get me something equally cool for our six months anniversary.” </p><p>“I’m glad I got a heads up that we’re doing six month anniversary presents,” Peter said, “But yes, I did have something in mind.” He set the backpack down on the Nemeton’s stump and opened it, handing the wine bottle to Stiles. </p><p>Stiles recognized the brand, and that Peter was deferring to Stiles’ tastes — or lack thereof — with a wine that was more of a fruit juice. It had a cap that twisted off. Stiles opened it and took a swig. Peter handed him a sandwich, already partially unwrapped, and he immediately dug in. It was some kind of soft cheese and cured meat and roasted peppers or something. It went pretty well with the wine, as much as Stiles could tell. </p><p>Peter settled in on the stump with his own sandwich, and snagged the bottle back from Stiles. “I did bring glasses, you know.” </p><p>“Who knows what happens if I spill wine on the Nemeton,” Stiles said, “that’d probably count as a sacrifice or some shit. Let’s not open that can of worms.” </p><p>“Point,” Peter said, and drank directly from the bottle. </p><p>“Aw yeah,” Stiles said laughing, “I love when you slum it with me.” </p><p>“Stiles, I never slum it with you,” Peter said, sniffing delicately, “I put <em>jamon iberico</em> in these sandwiches.” </p><p>“You brought<em> ‘jamon iberico’</em> to the slums, is what you did. There’s a joke there somewhere. Like pearls before swine but the pearls are ham?” </p><p>“We can workshop it,” Peter said. He hesitated briefly over his sandwich and then said, “since we’re apparently doing six months a month early—”</p><p>“Hm?” Stiles asked, mouthful of soft cheese and fucking <em>jamon iberico</em>. </p><p>“I am serious. I never slum it with you. But I… do think we could spend more time together if you moved in with me.”  </p><p>Stiles choked on his sandwich, swallowing around a too-large bite in order to recover. </p><p>“Oh,” Stiles said, coughing to clear his throat, eyes leaking a little, “oh no. Absolutely not.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Look ma, I'm writing! Thanks to Smalls2233 for the beta and for screaming with me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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